


Ashes and Wine

by fictionandcoffee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angelo Knows What's Up, Awesome Irene Adler, Eventual Parentlock, Everyone Is Gay, Everyone's a Gay Mess, Irene Plays Matchmaker, John and Mary Break Up, John is a Mess, M/M, Mary Ships It, Nice Mary Morstan, No Really He's a Gay Mess, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, There's a wedding, Waltzing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 09:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18588340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionandcoffee/pseuds/fictionandcoffee
Summary: John Watson is marrying Mary Morstan. Honestly, he is. Because he isn't gay. At all. Certainly not.He just hadn't expected Irene Adler to be a guest at his wedding.When the Woman returns upon hearing that Sherlock is alive, tension ripples through Sherlock and John's tentative friendship. With the Woman comes feelings better off repressed, memories better off buried, regrets better off forgotten, and lingering glances better off unacknowledged. This, at least, is something they can both agree on. John is engaged, set to thrive with uneventful life in the suburbs.Sherlock respects this. Kind of. Ah. In some way, he's very close to respecting it.Irene does not.Meddling ensues, chaos replaces hesitancy, dark secrets and betrayals are revealed. Certain feelings are too loud, too overwhelming for anyone to thrive in denial over for long; less so when a certain dominatrix happens to know precisely what, and who, everyone likes.





	Ashes and Wine

**Author's Note:**

> first, i want to thank anyone who clicked this for reading. i truly appreciate it so much. next, i would like to tell you to prepare for a lot of gay angst, strong female leads, gay fluff, classical music, gay relationships, and generally, gay. here we go.

"It's a simple enough box step, John."

"Yes, well, I think the nine times I've stepped on your feet prove how very not simple this is, thank you."

Sherlock tried to prevent his lips from quirking into a smile. Nearly impossible. John's gaze was trained on their feet, brows furrowed in concentration. Nerves of steel, capable of killing a person through two windows, war hero, almost turned to dust while strapped with explosives . . . .

Yet he struggled with a box step waltz.

"It's four steps, John," Sherlock reminded him. Apparently this did not ease John's distress. He tried a different tactic. "Children have been proven to master it far quicker than you."

"Oh, well, thanks, that's very reassuring."

"You are not entirely incapable, surely you should be able to--"

This time, Sherlock was quite certain that John stepped on his foot intentionally.

It came as a surprise to John that Sherlock was capable of more than faking his own death and making highly inappropriate deductions about the people around him. ( _Side note: Advise Donovan to purchase longer skirts to cover the state of her knees; quite unnerving to observe._ ) Despite living together for eighteen months, they had never established Sherlock's love of dance.

Possibly not shocking. He had been careful to keep certain parts hidden, lest John realize how human he could be. Simpler that way, less tedious discussions of feelings. There had been a few occasions they had come close to those discussions, ones unspoken yet  _felt_ each time the Woman texted or John's girlfriend of the week had eyed them with suspicion.

They'd never gotten around to it, those conversations. For the best.

After all, John was getting married in weeks now. Domestic bliss.

Sherlock banished the annoying voice (which sounded a great deal like Mycroft, a fact that infuriated the detective) from his head. He tightened his grip on John's hand. No, he did not feel anything similar to  _electricity_ from the warm touch. Cliches such as those were reserved for Happy Lovers, which included John but would never include Sherlock. "Again."

"Oh, you want me to stomp your foot again, do you?"

" _Try_ again."

John huffed, but managed a vaguely dignified attempt at repeating the (excessively simple) steps Sherlock had demonstrated. No feet were harmed this time, a fact that Sherlock took great pride in. Sarcastic praise lingered on the tip of his tongue, muted only by John's other hand gripping his waist. Urgently, as well, fingernails developing creases in Sherlock's jacket. 

Sherlock blinked. "Um. Yes. Similarly to that. Only I would not recommend gripping onto her quite . . . so . . . tightly. Cuts off circulation. Bad enough the wedding dress is designed to do that."

He was rambling. Sherlock Holmes was rambling. Nervously.

He knew he never should have agreed to this.

It was deeply unexpected that they knew no one else capable of moving in a relatively graceful manner. Molly was not entirely inept at dancing, though she lacked the capability to actually teach John as there was always an inexplicable tenseness between them. Nothing concerning or electric, certainly not, but . . . present, occasionally dulled, but  _there_.

Which left Sherlock.

Who harbored a secret love of dance.

A love that Mary Morstan had somehow managed to discern and reveal to each person listening at one of their gatherings with John and Mrs. Hudson at Baker Street. This had led to Mrs. Hudson insisting that Sherlock save  _poor John and Mary_ the extra cost of a professional dance teacher. 

Sherlock easily deduced that it was less about saving John and Mary from unneeded expenses and more about nudging John and Sherlock together one last time. She never changed.

Though her matchmaking had become a bit unconventional with age. Forcing Sherlock to teach John how to waltz with his prospective wife; not only wildly ineffective, but also bordering on cruelty. Abuse, possibly. Sherlock would look into getting Mycroft to arrest her, preferably only offering bail after the wedding.

Gradually, Sherlock came to realize he had dwelt upon all of this within a short period of time, as John was just now loosening his grip on his waist and smoothing out the creases in Sherlock's suit jacket. He avoided eye contact, head slightly angled downwards, but for a second . . . .

Well, for a brief moment, Sherlock thought John was blushing.

Utterly ridiculous. No reason for John to blush. Flush, possibly. Overheated? Though it was not that warm in the flat, the fireplace was not flaming. So no, not heat. Then  _what_ \--?

"I was not gripping that tightly."

"Oh, I'm sure I'll have bruises."

Strangely enough, that flush made a reappearance, darkening. Sherlock frowned, but before he could inquire, John had already cleared his throat and brushed it off. Opportunity lost. "Shall we continue, then?"

"Yes, assuming you quit flushing like a prepubescent girl around her potential lover. Honestly, John, I was willing to overlook the scrapbook but this is too far." 

John sputtered, clearly fuming, but before he could bark out a retort, Sherlock already began to lead the waltz. It had been exasperating, allowing John to lead as he fumbled and stumbled over and over again. What a relief it was to take control, banish all concerns and silly little emotions from his mind as he allowed each repressed feeling to flow in the elegant dance.

Around the sitting room they went. Thankfully the table was nudged against the wall, all potential of tripping gracelessly over stray furniture nonexistent. 

Music drifted through the flat. One night prior, Sherlock had composed a playlist of songs suitable for basic box-step waltzes. Nothing too special, no need to appear sentimental, though there was  _one_ song he made the mistake of adding. One song, incidentally, playing now.

John managed to keep up, despite Sherlock's swift pace. It would have been easy to assume the furrow of his brows was due to the quickening dance, but Sherlock knew better. This was the John Look of Confusion. Paired with the John Look of Deep Consideration. "This song," he started.

Sherlock hummed in response. If that hum was in tune with the melancholic violin composition, that was pure coincidence. Just as the song itself, and its presence on the playlist, was pure coincidence.

 _What do we say about coincidence? The universe is rarely so lazy_.

Damn Mycroft.

"What's the name of it? Sounds almost familiar. It isn't one of yours, is it?"

"Obviously not," Sherlock snapped. As always, John remained indifferent to his sudden hostility. One fact that Sherlock may possibly never comprehend was how John managed to accept and handle his ever-changing moods, even now. "Manuel Ponce composed it in the early twentieth century. Far before my time."

"Right." John nodded. They nearly stumbled. Or, more accurately, John missed a step and nearly took them both down. They recovered. Somehow, they always did. "Right, but what's the name?"

"This is relevant because . . .?"

"I don't know. It's kind of beautiful, isn't it?" A pause. "It sounds like the kind of song a couple would dance to at their wedding."

Dread coiled, fast and tight, in the pit of Sherlock's stomach. He pursed his lips, concentrating far harder than he needed to on the dance as they glided closer to their chairs. "Unnecessary. You do realize I'm composing a piece for your wedding dance."

"I know that. I just--"

"The name is irrelevant. Though I wouldn't advise dancing to this song at your wedding."

"Why not?"

Sherlock did not answer. There was no easy way to announce that the song was tragic in origin, each lyric dripping with sorrow from hopeless, unrequited love; the type of love that people would kill for, die for. That struck a bit too close to home. 

Instead, he led. 

He led, as he always did. He led with a desire to surprise John, to make him smile that smile that was so often followed by unnecessary exclamations of  _brilliant_ or  _fantastic_ that made Sherlock's chest warm. He led, with his hand in John's, as if time and distance and dishonesty had no power over them; as if they'd remained connected despite their prolonged separation.

He led.

John's expression was blank. Sherlock fought against a frown, smoothing his expression into one that hopefully lacked the concern he felt. He raised a brow. "No need to act frightened. I won't dip you out a window. The entire point is to prevent you from dropping Mary."

Desired effect accomplished. John made a face, sufficiently distracted from his thoughts. "You're absolutely ridiculous. I won't drop her. But you -- well,  _you_ would drop me if you tried to dip me."

"You would. Unintentionally, of course, but regardless, embarrassing for you both. Dipping you? Obvious. I'm not going to drop you. Despite what you appear to believe, I am a very skilled dancer."

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, you're Sherlock bloody Holmes, you're good at everything. Does nothing to reassure me that you won't drop me if I frustrate you enough."

Sherlock cracked a small smile. "You always frustrate me." Unreadable blue eyes met his. Ah, right. Social constructs; frustration was often associated with more primal needs. Pushing against a blush, he forced himself to continue, "And yet there . . . you . . . stand. Perfectly intact."

"I'd call that luck."

"Don't you trust me?"

"See, answering that would give you the exact incentive you'd need to drop me."

This was rapidly becoming tedious. Sherlock groaned. " _John_ \--"

"All right, fine! Yes, I trust you. God help me." John huffed. It was a rather undignified conversation, no real heat behind their bickering. If there had been, it would have been diminished by their interlocked fingers, or spare hands gripping at each other. Potentially a compromising position, if one was not happily engaged.

 _Engaged_. With a ring. Then a wedding. Sherlock could hardly stomach it.

"But at least  _try_ not to drop me, all right? Need I remind you, I'm a doctor; I could easily break every bone in your body while naming them." Amusement glinted in John's eyes, spoiling his threat.

"You say the sweetest things," quipped Sherlock. John attempted a sarcastic smile, though it was wiped off his face as Sherlock spun him, drawing him close before dipping him. Rather abruptly, but not so fast that any heads cracked. No bruises. No harm. 

For a moment, they remained still.

John blinked. His lips were parted. Pupils dilated. It was all terrifyingly easy to see, Sherlock was so close to his face. To his lips. The same lips that John was currently licking. Sherlock's stomach twisted again, this time in an entirely pleasant way, one reminiscent of that first evening at Angelo's. Suddenly, they were years younger, less weight on their shoulders and heaviness in their hearts.

Time healed all wounds, sappy therapists said. 

Perhaps it was the  _lack_ of time that healed it. Not time passing, but time pausing; time flickering in an obtuse, unbelievable way in which the past catches up to you, latches onto you, temporarily erases the countless scars and suffering you've endured over the years. Long enough for a moment. A breath. A fleeting glance. A heartbeat. Possibly two heartbeats.

Then it shattered, as all good things must.

"What happens next?" John whispered. His voice was breathy.

It twisted Sherlock's stomach into a dozen more knots. Pleasant, frightening, exhilarating knots. He swallowed hard. Twice. He felt the urge to lick his own lips, but repressed it. "This is the part where you kiss her." He did not repress it; as soon as the words were out, he licked his lips. Blinked, almost groggily. " _John_."

John had not looked away from Sherlock.

No, his gaze was fixed rather pointedly on Sherlock's lips, actually. 

Just to be very clear, this was not usually part of the dance routine.

There was no way to predict what would happen next. Perhaps it had been coming for years upon years. Secrets can only remain hidden for so long, and everything must come out into the open in the end. This was the end in a way, wasn't it? The end of an era, as Mrs. Hudson continued to phrase it so dramatically. Yes. Secrets must escape now. Especially meticulously kept ones.

 _Aah_.

The familiar text alert rang throughout the flat. Timid as it was, it had the effect of an explosive.

John jerked away at once, nearly elbowing Sherlock in the throat in his haste to free himself. His cheeks were flushed, hues of reds and pinks coloring his skin, though the aesthetic quality was damaged by the horror in his eyes. Eyes that had been locked on Sherlock's lips mere seconds before. Was the horror over that, or the text from the Woman perceived as dead to all but Sherlock himself?

Inconclusive. More data required.

Regardless, this was the secret that would escape today. No other. Lingering looks and unacknowledged brushes had nothing on another false death.

"What was that noise?"

Sherlock blinked. Rapidly. It was an attempt to appear nonchalant, but likely resembled a stroke better. "What noise?"

 _Aah_.

Damn it.

"That noise," John said. His expression was unreadable. That was strange. While John inexplicably managed to constantly surprise Sherlock, his expressions were an open book. Disappointment, fascination, pride, disapproval, anger, relief. This was blank. 

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Safe to pretend he had not heard the text alert. From his phone. In his jacket pocket.

All right, perhaps not too safe. Quite possibly very, very reckless, bordering on nonsensical. Disgraceful, really. Mycroft would be amused.

Perhaps Sherlock would get lucky and Mycroft would choke on cake while laughing at him.

"Playing dumb doesn't suit you."

 _Playing smart doesn't suit you_ would have been Sherlock's reflexive response if it was anyone else. But this was John Watson, and while that had never repressed his sarcastic tirades before, they were treading carefully. John said he'd forgiven Sherlock for faking his death and keeping the truth from him for two years, but Sherlock still sensed a bit of underlying, unspoken anger.

Instead, Sherlock shrugged, humming along to the song -- it had switched to Johann Sebastian Bach, Violin Partita No. 2, as he stepped away from John. Unfortunately. He'd grown comfortable with the lack of personal space between them during this little lesson. It reminded him of old times. Before false suicides and engagements and living apart.

Living apart was possibly the hardest part for Sherlock to accept. 

John had been in relationships before. Granted, not serious ones, but annoyingly existent ones nonetheless. Mary was perhaps the most tolerable of John's romantic companions, making it slightly easier to accept their impending  _domestic bliss._

But John not living in 221B?

Foreign. Unnatural. Wrong.

It occurred to Sherlock that his inner dwelling lasted longer than usual. John watched him cautiously. It reminded Sherlock of when John requested him as best man (a title that remained terrifying and vastly inconceivable to Sherlock). 

Sherlock spoke up, "As if  _I_ would ever play dumb. Ridiculous. That's everyone else's preference, never my own. Have I told you about the time--?"

Before he could finish his failing attempt to change the subject, John launched himself at him. Not violently, which was a pleasant change, but to retrieve the phone from his pocket. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, reaching for it, but it was too late -- John had already seen the contact name.

That alarmingly empty expression made its way onto John's features again. "Oh. This -- she's -- oh." His voice matched his expression. Bit not good, Sherlock assumed. "She's -- uh-huh. Right. Well." He cleared his throat. "She's alive."

"A bit," said Sherlock.

"Were you ever planning on telling me?" Silence. John laughed. Not his usual wheezing, breathless one, but something humorless and vacant that left Sherlock feeling oddly cold. "Don't answer that. I can make a deduction of my own, actually." He slid the phone back into Sherlock's pocket, fingers lingering for only a brief second.

Sherlock frowned. He'd expected a better invasion of privacy than that. "You aren't going to read the texts?"

"Yeah, I'd rather not, thanks."

Unreadable tone of voice, as well. Sherlock made a slight face, narrowing his eyes as his gaze raked over John. He made an array of simple deductions (cooking for Mary tonight, working tomorrow, recently used electric razor, freshly polished shoes, run-in with an enthusiastic cat on the street, overpriced cab ride), yet he could not distinguish what that tone meant.

It was familiar.

_Fifty-seven._

_Sorry?_

_Fifty-seven of those texts, the ones I've heard._

_Thrilling that you've been counting_.

It hadn't made a lick of sense then, either.

Sherlock retrieved his phone from his pocket, twirling it between his fingers without checking the messages just yet. It seemed John was irritated enough, and he'd prefer deducing the cause before worsening it. However, judging how John glowered at the small device, its very presence worsened matters. 

"Aren't you going to check that?" John said, as if it had gone off once more, which it clearly had not. "She'd probably feel offended if she knew you didn't immediately hang onto her every word."

Sherlock blinked. Difficult to perceive the Woman as someone capable of feeling offense. Far too independent and confident for that, unless faced with certain death, in which she admittedly faltered. "Well, there's no way for her to know, is there?" 

"How would I know?" John asked. "I mean, I don't know. Do you ever text her back? Do you call and talk for hours? Are there . . . nights of passion in High Wycombe? Do you prefer a discreet Harvester? Or--?"

John would never get it.

For a conductor of light, he was remarkably dim when it came to matters of the heart. More precisely, matters of  _Sherlock's_ heart.

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock huffed. "I don't text her back!"

Footsteps. Light, clearly belonging to a woman. Clicking with each steps -- high heels, then. Three inches. Expensive and chosen with care.

Strutting. Confident posture. Approaching from down the hall. Shadows cast around her, displaying her familiar build, her dark brown hair from its meticulous, wavy bun. Wrapped only in a navy trenchcoat. Correction,  _his_ navy trenchcoat. The Woman flashed a coolly amused smirk.

"Yes, has no one ever taught you manners?"

Sherlock blinked. For once, he was entirely caught off-guard. While the Woman had managed to evade his deductions before, managed to beat him twice despite only being moderately clever, this was a new advancement in their little game. How long had she been there, he wondered? Did she sneak in as she had when she'd returned his coat and phone? How had he not noticed nor heard?

Last time was reasonable. Last time, he had been high off her forceful ketamine injection. This was inexcusable.

Finally, Sherlock spared a glance towards the unread messages.

_You're not dead. Let's have dinner._

_I'm in your room. Quite oblivious while you're pining, aren't you, Mr Holmes?_

Her smirk remained cool and calculating, not at all unusual for her. It glazed over Sherlock, fixating upon John instead, who was watching her with a cross between mild interest and disdain. In fact, quite reminiscent of how Sherlock acknowledged Mycroft. He was almost proud.

"I almost forgot. Sincerest of congratulations on your forthcoming vows, Dr. Watson," she cooed. "I am certain Sherlock is  _overjoyed._  Aren't you, dear?"

Sherlock set his jaw. Ah. This was her move. Fine, then.

"Simply overcome with emotion."

Her answering smile could have frozen Hell over, if such a placed existed.

The game was on.

**Author's Note:**

> the song sherlock and john waltz to is titled, "estrellita," for anyone curious! nikolaj znaider does a beautiful rendition of it (available on spotify) that inspired this scene.


End file.
